"Cecilia Dart-Thornton - The Bitterbynde 02 - The Lady of the Sorrows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dart-Thornton Cecilia)

"You heal creatures of eldritch, madam?" Imrhien's voice was still soft, like the hissing of the wind
through heather.
"Hush. Do not speak thus, when such a one is nigh. I heal who I can where and when I am able. It is
a duty of my callingтАФbut by no means the beginning and end of it." Maeve fingered the brooch at her
shoulder; silver, wrought in the shape of an antlered stag.
"Carlins are not merely physicians to humankind. The Coillach Gairm is the protectress of all wild
things, in particular the wild deer. We who receive our knowledge from her, share her intention. Our
principal purpose is the welfare of wild creatures. To protect and heal them is our mandateтАФcare of
humans is a secondary issue. Go to bed."
"I have another affliction. You are powerfulтАФmayhap you can help me. Beyond a year or two ago,
I have no memory of my past."
"Yes, yes, I suspected as much. Do you think I haven't been scratching my head about that? But it's
a doom laid on you by something far stronger than I, and beyond my power to mend. For the Coillach's
sake, come away from the mirror and go to bed. You're wearing out my glass. Don't go near her, that
feathered oneтАФshe is afraid of most people, as they all are, with good reason."
The saurian jumped back onto the carlin's lap. She scratched its upstanding dorsal plates as it
circled a couple of times before settling.
"I would have liked something less armored and more furry," she murmured, looking down at it, "but
bird-things would not come near, if I had a cat. Besides, Fig gave me no choice. He chose me."
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It was difficult to sit still inside the house of the carlin, within walls, and to know that Thorn walked
in Caermelor, in the Court of the King-Emperor. Now the renewed damsel was impatient to be off to the
gates of the Royal City. At the least, she might join the ranks of Thorn's admirers, bringing a little
self-respect with her. She might exist near him, simultaneously discharging the mission she had taken upon
herself at Gilvaris Tarv: to reveal to the King-Emperor the existence of the great treasure andтАФit was to
be hopedтАФto set into motion a chain of events that would lead to the downfall of those who had slain
Sianadh, Liam, and the other brave men of their expedition.
Maeve, however, was not to be swayed.
"You shall not leave here until the healing is complete. Think you that I want to see good work
ruined? Settle downтАФyou're like a young horse champing at the bit. Even Fig's getting ruffled." The
lizard, dozing fatly by the fire, adeptly hid its agitation. In the shadows the swanmaiden stirred and sighed.
Three days stretched to five, then six. The weather raged again, battering at the walls of the cottage.
At nights a nimble bruney would pop out from somewhere when it thought the entire household
asleep, and do all the housework in the two-roomed cot with amazing speed, quietness, and efficiency.
Under Maeve's instructions the girl feigned sleep if she happened to waken and spy it. Its clothes were
tattered and its little boots worn and scuffed. When it had finished, it drank the milk set out for it, ate the
bit of oatcake, and disappeared again, leaving everything in a state of supernatural perfection.
Tom Coppins, the quiet lad with great dark eyes, was both messenger and student to the carlin,
performing errands that took him from the house, aiding her in preparing concoctions or helping her treat
the ailments and vexations of the folk who beat a path to her door: everything from gangrene and
whooping cough to butter-churns in which the butter wouldn't "come," or a dry cow, or warts. Someone
asked for a love potion and went away empty-handed but with a stinging earful of sharp advice. From
time to time Maeve would go outside to where her staff was planted in the ground and come back
carrying leaves or fruit plucked from itтАФpotent cures. Or she would tramp out into the woods and not
return for hours.
More and more, the carlin allowed Imrhien to wield her voice; it was exhilarating to converse freely;
such a joy, as if the bird of speech had been liberated from an iron cage. Little by little she told her story,
omittingтАФfrom a sense of privacy if not shame for having been so readily smittenтАФher passion for
Thorn.
When the tale had been recounted, the old woman sat back in her chair, rocking and knitting. ("I